


and are joined by a mathematician

by buckgaybarnes



Series: a xenobiologist and a chaotician walk into a bar [2]
Category: Jurassic Park Original Trilogy (Movies), Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Age Difference, Jealousy, M/M, Mild Comeplay, Mild Voyeurism, Multi, Praise Kink, Sloppy Seconds, Threesome - M/M/M, jeff goldblum dirty talking, mild exhibitionism, this is the single most explicit thing i have ever written, vague allusions to scientific research and weak plot contrivances two: electric boogaloo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-24
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-13 04:52:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,704
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14742326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: Newt and Hermann's first meeting goes a little differently than either were expecting. It's not exactly a bad thing.





	and are joined by a mathematician

**Author's Note:**

> so in december i wrote a self-indulgent crossover fanfic and then wrote a self-indulgent sequel a few weeks later i never bothered posting. turns out a lot of you liked the first one! and what with a movie featuring BOTH icons coming out in a couple weeks i thought why not edit up this one too. (can't wait to watch acapulco get rawed by the wolf king on the big screen). special thank u to all of u on twitter who validated me when i posted the google docs link to this in a haze at like 3 am
> 
> i feel like i should apologize for posting what is more or less 7,000 words of sheer pornography, and yet i won't, so happy reading!

Five cups of coffee is a completely reasonable amount of coffee to have, especially when you’re _not_ nervous, like Newt. He is completely, one hundred percent chill about this, just like he is about everything. The caffeine is the only reason his hands are shaking.

“Refill. Please,” he tells his bemused waiter for the fifth time.

“Do you just want a whole pot?” the guy says, and he’s definitely a little irritated at how much Newt is making him run back and forth between his table and the counter, which is completely reasonable.

In Newt’s defense, Hermann was meant to be here twenty minutes ago, and Hermann being the late one is _not_ how Newt foresaw this all going down at all. “Yeah,” he says, absentmindedly. “Pot’s fine.” Did Hermann have second thoughts? Did he watch Newt’s lecture and think _God, this guy’s annoying_ , and hop the next flight back across the pond? Maybe he died on the way to the conference center in a horrible car accident, or maybe he’s trapped in an elevator somewhere, or maybe—

"Hello again," Dr. Ian Malcolm says, suddenly standing at his table like it's the most normal thing in the world and gesturing broadly to the empty chair opposite Newt, and Newt’s brain begins to short-circuit and he chokes violently on his coffee. "Would you, ah, mind terribly?"

Newt, eyes watering and hacking up a lung, is too dumbfounded to do anything other than nod, and Dr. Malcolm smiles lazily at him as he slips into it. It's been five long months since Chicago—five months since, to put it bluntly, Newt achieved the impossible dream and fucked his childhood crush and then more or less ghosted him. And now here he is right in front of Newt. "What are you doing here, dude?" he says, acting like he has any idea how to start this conversation. Newt isn't exactly a one night stand kind of guy and he doesn't entirely know how to act around a person who, effectively, _was_ one. There is also the matter, of course, of Hermann being overdue to meet him at this exact cafe, and Newt's not totally gung-ho about any form of meeting of their minds. "I didn't know you were speaking today,” he adds. He definitely would've noticed.

"I wasn't," Dr. Malcolm says, already managing to somehow lounge in the chair. He's trimmed his beard, Newt notices. Groomed it a bit more. It still looks nice. "It's my turn to say, to say this. 'I came to hear you.'"

Newt feels his face heat up. "Oh. Um. Seriously?"

Dr. Malcolm shrugs. He drums his fingers on the table. "I looked you up. After, you know, after Chicago. Your publications are really something." He waits a beat. "You're really something. Dr. Geiszler. I've become something of, of an admirer. Of your, uh, work. In more ways than one."

Newt pretends he's incredibly interested in the grounds at the bottom of his mug and hopes Dr. Malcolm can't see his furious blush. Because, holy shit, double entendre, but also Ian Malcolm follows his research and came here just for him? His life has reached a level of surreal in the last half-year that he really can't really begin to fully comprehend. "Oh," he squeaks.

Dr. Malcolm crosses and uncrosses his legs twice. His eyes flicker down to Newt's leather jacket—Dr. Malcolm's leather jacket—that Newt's treated with only the most loving care and attention, and Newt unconsciously shifts so Dr. Malcolm has a better view of how it looks on him. “You know," he says, gaze lingering, "it really does look, uh, look very good on you." He hums thoughtfully. "I don't mean to prod, or pry, or or what have you, into your—personal affairs, but," he frowns, as if he can't figure out how to phrase his question. "Are you…?”

“Newton!” someone is exclaiming happily, and Newt experiences the oddest sensation of both dread and elation (a medley of _oh no bad timing_ and _oh no he’s even hotter in person_ ) _,_ because that’s definitely a mildly flustered Hermann Gottlieb pushing his way through the cafe doors and booking it over to Newt’s table as fast as he possibly can via cane. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he’s saying, and then he notices that Newt’s not alone.

There’s a tense moment of silence as he stares at Dr. Malcolm, and then at Newt. Dr. Malcolm decides to break it. “Dr. Ian Malcolm,” he says, getting to his feet and holding out a hand in one smooth, fluid motion. He smiles, all casual charm.

Hermann, meanwhile, blanches at the name. “Oh,” he says. “I see.” He doesn’t take Dr. Malcolm’s hand, but tightens his grasp on the head of his cane almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t realize that…” He trails off.

Dr. Malcolm is undeterred. “Who’s your friend?” he says to Newt, flippantly, and Newt’s heart begins to pound. He needs to figure out the quickest way to make this situation end now, in a way that doesn’t hurt Dr. Malcolm’s feelings or make Hermann think he’s not single and ready to mingle (with Hermann), which he totally is.

“This is my—Hermann,” he says lamely.

Hermann narrows his eyes at Dr. Malcolm. “Please call me Dr. Gottlieb,” he corrects coolly. “How do you know—”

“Here’s an idea,” Newt interrupts loudly as he spirals rapidly towards panic mode, danger Newt Geiszler danger, “let’s all go back to my place?” His apartment is only a few blocks north, and it’s cold enough outside that they’ll probably forget this conversation immediately in favor of complaining about it being cold instead. At least, that’s what he’s banking on.

Hermann freezes; Dr. Malcolm, curiously, gives Hermann a slow, considering once-over. “Sounds like fun,” he says, with a grin.

* * *

The walk over is quiet, as Newt had hoped, but it doesn’t dawn on him until he’s unlocking his apartment door that he never actually formed a plan for what to do when they _get_ there. He could fake appendicitis, maybe, and fall dramatically to the floor. Or pretend the whole building is being evacuated because of...something.

“This is me,” he says instead, and pushes the door open. The plus side of being broke and swimming in student loan debt is not owning enough stuff to have a messy apartment, at least. Dr. Malcolm waltzes inside, but Hermann corners Newt before they can follow, a hand to his chest. “Newton,” he says in a low voice, “what exactly is happening right now?”

Newt’s been dreading this all afternoon. That doesn’t mean, however, that he’s going to tell the truth. Mostly because he can’t think of a way to confess to having a one night stand with one of the leading mathematical minds of the century without it reflecting poorly on himself, and also he’s _really_ trying to get into Hermann’s dorky plaid pants, here, and that won’t do him any favors. “Remember that conference I went to a few months back,” he says, equally low, “that Dr. Malcolm was presenting at? And I was all excited for it?” Hermann nods. “We, um, we ran into each other afterwards. Talked for a bit. About math and shit. And my research.” Not a complete lie.

“Oh.” Hermann’s expression is indecipherable. “Did you—keep in touch?”

“No,” Newt says quickly, because at least that’s the truth.

Hermann looks satisfied, and then he frowns. “Why didn’t you mention it before?”

Newt shrugs. “You were kinda pissed off at me when it happened, I guess, so I just kind of—forgot to tell you.”

Hermann looks skeptical, but Newt’s saved from being grilled with any more questions about Dr. Malcolm by the man himself calling out from Newt’s kitchen. “Swanky place you’ve got here. Much, uh, neater than mine. Don’t think I’ve done a dish since I was your age. Ha. Oh, you have goldfish?”

“God help me,” Hermann sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “ _Why’d_ you have to invite him along, Newton?”

Newt swallows down a hysterical scream—hoo boy, is he going to have a lot to talk to his therapist about on Monday—and follows Hermann inside. Dr. Malcolm’s claimed a chair at Newt’s kitchen table, looking as though he’s made himself at home already, and Hermann cautiously sits down across from him.

Newt, meanwhile, lurks awkwardly in the entrance way, seconds away from wringing his hands like a goddamn cliche. “You guys want—coffee or tea or anything?”

Dr. Malcolm smiles warmly at him, batting his eyelashes far more than is necessary. “Whatever is easiest.”

Hermann nods stiffly in agreement. His arms are folded.

“Okay,” Newt says, he can work through this, he can survive this. “I’ll—I’m on it. Just sit and get acquainted.” Bad idea? “Or not, who cares.”

Newt flips on his electric kettle and gropes blindly in a cabinet for tea bags. He grabs three from the first box he finds—some weird herbal shit that’s been in there for at _least_ five years—and tosses them into chipped mugs from various conferences, and pretends he’s not totally eavesdropping on Dr. Malcolm and Hermann’s conversation. Eavesdropping may be too strong a word for it; they’re talking at normal volume, and they are, in fact, in the same room, only inches away from Newt.

“So. Dr. Gottlieb,” Dr. Malcolm says, leaning in to Hermann’s personal space, “how did—I caught that right, didn’t I? ‘ _Dr_.’?”

“Yes,” Hermann sniffs. Newt can see from the corner of his eye that Hermann somehow manages to cross his arms even _tighter_ ; Dr. Malcolm, meanwhile, is—almost _flirtatious_.

“That makes three of us, then. How, uh, exciting. What do you study?” Newt taps his fingers on the counter. “I bet it’s something _fascinating_.” Dr. Malcolm bats his eyelashes again, but Hermann’s receiving their full force this time.

“Mathematics,” Hermann says, apparently confined to one word responses that barely scratch the surface of the actual truth now. The kettle clicks off, and Newt nearly scalds his hand pouring the water out as fast as possible.

“Oh,” Dr. Malcolm says, sounding pleasantly surprised. “Of course. I think Dr. Geiszler’s, I think he’s talked about you. Hm. He did mention he had a _type_ , when we—”

Newt panics, and flings the sugar bowl into the sink because it’s the fastest diversion he can think of. He misjudges the amount of force he uses, however, and instead of just making a loud noise it ends up completely shattering against the steel. Hermann and Dr. Malcolm immediately spring to their feet and are at his side in a flash.

“Are you hurt?” Hermann frets, at the same time Dr. Malcolm says “You alright?” and they both reach for his right hand, and Newt’s effectively cornered against the dishwasher.

“Fine,” he squeaks, because wow, that was unexpected. He debates making a joke about one of them kissing his non-existent cut better, but Hermann’s glaring daggers at Dr. Malcolm over Newt’s head while Dr. Malcolm strokes a thumb across Newt’s wrist and Newt’s worried it might turn into a tug-of-war over his arm. Or that they might straight-up start dueling for his honor with kitchen knives. “I’ll just—take care of the mess.”

Newt waves Hermann and Dr. Malcolm back to their chairs and attempts to gather the shards of ceramic before it can go down the drain and fuck up his garbage disposal. The conversation resumes, blessedly steering away from “Newt can’t keep it in his pants for hot genius nerds” territory and more into that of “this is why we’re genius nerds”. Turns out it’s only temporary.

“So, Dr. Gottlieb,” Dr. Malcolm says, “how did you meet our alluring host?”

Newt almost drops the pieces of bowl by accident this time.

“We were. Ah. Pen pals,” Hermann says, and doesn’t elaborate further.

“Pen pals?”

“We wrote letters. And...texted, sometimes.”

“How sweet,” Dr. Malcolm says, a little teasingly, but he seems to mean it.

Hermann doesn’t seem to think so. “And how did _you_ meet Dr. Geiszler?” he says, icily, and that’s Newt’s cue. He drops the mugs down on the table alongside an entire canister of sugar.

“Alright, cool, what are we talking about, guys?” He tries to casually slip into the chair between them, but misjudges the distance and bangs his knee loudly on a table leg in the process. Hermann very nearly jumps. Dr. Malcolm looks at Newt sympathetically.

“Easy, kid,” he says, reaching out to pat the knee, and then he just sort of—leaves it there. Newt thinks it’s an accident, at first, or at least an innocent gesture, but then he very deliberately winks and inches up to squeeze Newt’s thigh. Newt hopes that Hermann won’t notice, but then, of course, Hermann glances down and _does_ , and he makes an indignant squawking noise. Dr. Malcolm doesn’t move his hand.

Newt becomes extremely interested in stirring more and more sugar into his tea, until it begins to congeal into a sludge at the bottom of the mug.

"So," he finally says after what feels like ten minutes, because Hermann and Dr. Malcolm have been locked in a pretty intense staring match for the entirety of it and not only is the silence super awkward, but their drinks are probably getting cold too. They both snap to his attention, and Newt desperately searches for a subject. He honestly hadn't expected to get this far. "How was your...week?"

Dr. Malcolm flashes Newt another warm and engaging smile that, rather than having lost its novelty, still manages to make Newt's stomach flip-flop. "It was, uh, great, thank you for, for asking, Dr. Geiszler—"

"Dr. Geiszler was talking to _me_ ," Hermann cuts across sharply. He touches Newt's arm lightly, and Newt can feel the warmth through his shirt. The spoon nearly slips out of his hand. "It was decent, _Newton_ , but you've vastly improved it." He, too, smiles, laying on the charm thick, Newt's name rolling off his tongue in a way that's....kinda hot....and Newt has to fight not to gape.

Dr. Malcolm looks down at Hermann's hand, more amused than anything. "I think the good doctor can, can speak for himself."

"Yeah," Newt jumps in, seizing the chance to break up...whatever the hell is currently happening and desperately trying not to think on the fact he’s kinda turned on? "I meant both—"

"Remind me again, _Mr_. Malcolm," Hermann continues like Newt wasn't speaking, " _why_ exactly you're here?" His fingers are curling around Newt’s elbow.

"Ah, see, see, trick question, I never told you why, why I was here," Dr. Malcolm says. He crosses one of his long legs over the other. "I'm here for the same reason as you, actually, Dr.—what was it?—Dr. Gottlieb." He pats Newt’s knee pointedly.

Newt downs his entire cup of lukewarm, vaguely tea-flavored sugar water and slams it back on the table hard enough to make the whole table rattle. "Delicious," he says, cringing. "Wow, all empty, better get some more, who wants to help me? Hermann?"

No such luck. Hermann is still scowling at Dr. Malcolm, but his cheeks have gone a little red. "Regardless of my own motives for coming to Newton's lecture today," he snaps, "I _highly_ doubt they're anything similar to yours."

"On the contrary, I think we're on the same page," Dr. Malcolm says smoothly, locking eyes with Newt instead, and his tone is so laden with innuendo that he as good as says _we totally fucked_ , "Dr. Geiszler left quite the impression on me when we, ah, _met_."

"A moment, please," Hermann says primly, and promptly up and drags Newt into his bedroom and closes the door.

"Isn't this moving a little fast?" Newt jokes weakly, as Hermann sits him down on the end of his bed. Hermann doesn't even acknowledge the comment, which, fair.

"Newton," Hermann says, still so goddamn prim, pacing like he can't figure out how to put into words what he wants to say. “This man has very clear— _designs_ on you, and it's completely inappropriate, and—"

"We fucked," Newt blurts out.

Hermann stops, mid-sentence, opening and closing his mouth soundlessly a few times. "What?"

"I lied about only bumping into him," Newt says, casting his eyes downward to the carpet. "It was. Uh. A lot more than that." He debates adding that Dr. Malcolm rocked his world, but figures Hermann probably doesn't need or _want_ to know that.

Hermann sits down heavily on the mattress next to Newt. His fingers clench around his cane. "Oh," he says, voice small. He pauses for a long moment. "Do—do you still—?"

"It was only the one time," Newt says quickly. "Ran into him at a bar. I flirted terribly, but I guess he thought I was cute or something." He laughs nervously.

Hermann looks— _sad_ , only for a moment, but then seems to remember himself. "Forgive me," he says, back to stiff and collected, "I shouldn't have even said anything in the first place. I just thought we— You're an adult, Newton, who makes his own choices. We're all—adults, who make our own choices here. I—”

Newt furrows his brow. This has been—such a long day. “Okay, Hermann, look,” he says. “Cards on the table, dude, because I’m getting some super mixed signals here. I kinda thought that we, you know,” he tries to think of a way to adequately phrase _have been secretly pining after each other for four years and were going to spend tonight trading sweet nothings in each other’s arms_ in a way that’s not too weird. “Have a little something going on between us,” he decides on. “A romantic something. Because, I mean, I want there to be.”

Hermann blinks like someone's punched him in the face before he drops his cane and grabs fistfuls of Newt's shirt. "I’m an idiot," he says, "and you’re an idiot. I—" he opens and closes his mouth a few times, and then pulls Newt into a kiss. It's graceless—their teeth clash, their noses bump, Hermann's fingers are digging painfully into his chest—but Newt's can’t remember a time he’s ever been happier.

"Oh my god," he says, elated, when Hermann finally stops, and he looks like he can’t believe himself. "Hermann. Oh my god." Do that again, he thinks, but there's a knock at the door, and Newt suddenly remembers they have a third.

"Gentlemen?" Dr. Malcolm says, a little sarcastically.

"Come in," Hermann says, to Newt's surprise. The door swings open, and Dr. Malcolm leans against the frame, still looking mildly amused.

"Are we all, uh, done in here?" His eyes flick between Hermann's grip on Newt's chest, Newt's red lips, his labored breathing.

"I apologize for my earlier behavior," Hermann says, mildly. "We _are_ on the same page, it seems.”

Dr. Malcolm gives a half-shrug. "Completely, you know, completely understandable. Totally misread the situation anyway. I'll leave you two, uh, to it, then. Just show myself out."

"Or," Hermann says, letting go of Newt's shirt to trail a hand down to his thigh instead. He inches it along the inner seam of Newt's skinny jeans, and Newt inhales sharply, because um? "If Newton is so inclined, I wouldn't be adverse to—sharing him, as it were."

Newton is very much inclined.

“Oh, great,” Dr. Malcolm says cheerfully, and starts kicking off his boots, “I thought that’s why we were all here in the first place.”

* * *

Newt may _try_ to give off a certain cool, devil-may-care aura, but the truth of the matter is that he’s as woefully inexperienced when it comes to threeways as he is with one night stand etiquette. It's kind of weird at first, to be honest; there are two sets of hands undressing him, two sets of hands pressing him onto his bed, and he wishes he’d had the foresight to wash his _sheets_ or something because—Newt’s getting dizzy, because he's suddenly sandwiched between the two most mesmerizing people he's ever met and they can’t seem to keep their hands off of him.

"I don't know who to kiss first," Newt confesses weakly, as Dr. Malcolm mouths up the back of his neck and Hermann kisses his collarbone, his fingers dancing lightly over Newt's jeans zipper. "Too—too many options."

Hermann's mouth twitches into a grin and he angles Newt's chin to kiss him, deeply, and then tilts him so Dr. Malcolm can have a turn, taking over kissing his neck. "Problem solved," Newt squeaks once they're done, blinking and raising his fingers to his lips, because, uh, _wow_ , that's not the least of what's happening here but Hermann totally kissed him again.

"Don't be so nervous, sweetheart," Dr. Malcolm laughs, shucking off his black v-neck, and then he’s pressing skin against skin and running his fingertips across Newt’s abdomen. His voice is winding, low and seductive, in Newt’s ear. _Sweetheart_ , Newt thinks dazedly. He likes that. "You're the, the man of the hour. So to speak. What you say goes.”

"Not nervous," Newt breathes, as Hermann slowly slides Newt's jeans down. "Just—can't believe this is something that's. Happening to me. Oh, _wow_ , I—" Hermann presses a hand to the front of Newt's boxers, gingerly, inquisitively, and Newt's eyes close on their own accord. "Hermann—"

"Isn't he the cutest?" Dr. Malcolm says, and Newt can hear the grin. Hermann is still sizing him up through his boxers, teasing the elastic waistband with his thumb, and Newt really wishes he picked a pair that morning that was _mildly_ sexy, or at the very least, didn’t have tiny glow-in-the-dark UFOs all over them. Dr. Malcolm runs a strong hand across Newt's head, petting his hair. "Pretty good too. With. You know." He must mime something, and Newt could guess what, because Hermann makes an amused sound.

"I'll be the judge of that," Hermann says dryly, and Newt can tell he means it as a joke, but the thought of Hermann—

He groans, and pitches his hips forward a bit, and Hermann's breath hitches in surprise. Dr. Malcolm laughs again. Newt blinks back to reality, taking in Hermann's parted lips, the red spreading across his face and down past his tightly-buttoned collar. He’s—really something to see.

Newt moves forward eagerly, insistently, gripping at the soft wool of Hermann’s sweater and kissing him. “Touch me,” he begs, and his face blooms with heat as he rubs himself against Hermann’s hand. “Please—” He tries to kiss Hermann again, tries to worry at his lips, but Hermann pulls away.

“Calm, Newton,” he says gently, and kisses him again in a way that’s equally gentle; Newt tries desperately to deepen it, to _bite_ , to take the breath from his lungs, even, but Hermann pulls away before he can, shakes his head. “Be calm,” he says. Almost chiding. “There’s no rush in the slightest."

The sweater’s fabric slips through Newt’s fingers. Calm. He can do calm. Try to do calm, anyway.

"Just tell us what you want," Dr. Malcolm murmurs against his skin. Hermann gently nudges Newt until he's flat on his back between them; he hasn’t moved his hand from the bulge of Newt’s boxers.

Newt’s warm, between them, held in a semblance of an embrace. He feels secure. Or safe. He’s blushing down to his chest now, but he can't find it in himself to care. "Touch me," he says again, forcing a level of the calm he needs to his voice. "both of you. I—" _Love me_ sounds too pathetic to voice aloud, too needy, but they catch on anyway.

Dr. Malcolm kisses his lips while Hermann kisses his cheek, his shoulder, and Dr. Malcolm is helping Hermann slowly— _oh_ —slide down Newt's dumb alien boxers, and it's really. A lot. He gasps when the cool air hits his skin, and Dr. Malcolm swallows the noise.

"Look at you," Hermann breathes, as if Newt wasn't meant to hear, and he ghosts his fingers down Newt's cock—so light it's barely there—and Newt grabs hold of his wrist reflexively before he can pull his arm away.

"More," Newt begs, "please—"

"Relax," Dr. Malcolm repeats, easing Newt's hand up and kissing his fingertips, his palm, the beginnings of the ink swirling up his forearm. "There's no need to, to rush through things."

"You're meant to enjoy yourself," Hermann says, and he's moved to rub circles in the soft skin of Newt's hip instead. The two sensations combined is—soothing. Newt feels tenseness he wasn't even aware of fade away, and he eases against the pillows.

"That's nice," he says, blinking lazily at the two men above him. "That feels—nice. Oh." They’re both watching him with soft eyes, and Newt feels something twist pleasantly in his chest at it. When Hermann moves back to his cock, wrapping his hand around the base firmly, Newt lets out a low hiss, and when Hermann gives a tentative stroke, Newt bites down hard enough on his lower lip to draw blood.

"Don't hold back," Dr. Malcolm insists when he notices, teases Newt’s mouth open with his thumb and presses a little kiss to the puncture. "He’s very, he’s a noisy little guy," he tells Hermann in an undertone, like they're suddenly co-conspirators.

And—well—hearing Dr. Malcolm openly and brazenly acknowledge how Newt is in bed like Newt isn't even there, while Hermann's hand is on his dick is—kinda doing it for Newt? He lifts his hips a bit and lets out a little moan—noisy, he called him, noisy, Newt can be noisy—and Hermann looks surprised. Then his mouth twists up into a small smile.

"Hm." He gives Newt another long, languid stroke. "Noisy?" he says, as if the concept is completely unfamiliar to him, as if Hermann hasn't described Newt’s voice over the phone as a _viscerally penetrating screech_ on at least five separate occasions.

Dr. Malcolm matches the little glint in Hermann's eye. "You bet," he says with exaggerated casualness. "Made the most, uh, most charming little sounds. Even when he was. Otherwise preoccupied. So to speak."

"Preoccupied?" Hermann tightens his grip, dragging out the next stroke, and Newt whimpers a bit and tries to push into his hand. Hermann makes a great deal of feigning realization. "Oh. I _see_. I _was_ curious as to the particulars of your...liaison."

"You want particulars?" Dr. Malcolm says, voice dropping low again, and he locks eyes with Hermann, and heat is coiling nice and low in Newt’s stomach. "Fucked—forgive the, uh, the crass phraseology, Dr. Gottlieb—his very appealing face, and then he rode me like a pro."

Hermann plasters on a facade of only mild interest, but his steady rhythm around Newt’s cock falters and gives him away. "Ah," he says. "Is that all?"

"Nah," says Dr. Malcolm. "On his back too. Pinned him down." Newt thrusts up into Hermann's fist, so hard it's painful, but Hermann deliberately slows his hand and Newt whimpers again.

" _In_ teresting," says Hermann, dragging out the word. "What else is he like when he's getting _fucked_?" He, immediately, looks embarrassed, but, it’s—

Hearing Hermann curse in any situation would be hot, but hearing him say _fuck_ in such a detached tone, and saying _fuck_ in reference to Newt getting fucked, is really almost a bit too much, and Hermann's fancy little wrist movements aren’t helping matters. " _Oh_ ," Newt chokes, arm flying out to claw desperately at the sheets. He feels light-headed.

"Uh. I said noisy. Very noisy. Enthusiastic, really. Begs a lot. Likes getting his hair pulled. Would you guess it?" Dr. Malcolm smiles down fondly at Newt. "Very, very eager to please. Eager to, uh, how would you say it? Be flattered. Flattery."

"Flattery," Hermann repeats, considering. His strokes get faster, his hand gets a bit tighter, and he seems to finally recognize the effect this conversation’s been having on Newt. He nuzzles behind Newt's ear. "You must like a bit of a show, too, Newton."

Newt gasps again. He nods, tries to fuck up into Hermann's fist.

"I'd—I think I'd like to watch you. Put on a show." Hermann's blushing furiously, and his attempt at dirty talk is fumbling, but God help Newt, it's _working_. He seems to gain a little courage at Newt's reaction. "I bet you'd be fantastic, Newton. I could watch you get—" he stumbles over the next word again, awkwardly avoiding making eye contact, and it's weirdly cute as hell but also hot and Newt quite honestly, genuinely loves him, "—get fucked, and then I could. Have, um, have a go, right afterwards, while you're all a mess, while he's watching. Just spread your legs again—"

Newt's eyes widen. The thought is _gross_ and kinda _super degrading_ but it's Hermann so it's still  _hot_ and he surprises even himself when he's coming over his chest and Hermann's hand a second later. Hermann blinks down at his hand, and then at Newt.

"Oh," Hermann says simply, beet red by now.

"Kid's a little exhibitionist," Dr. Malcolm says gleefully. "Who knew?"

Newt didn't. “I’m not _that_ short,” he insists, when he’s able to breathe normally again.

Hermann is still blinking, a little disoriented, and he seems as though he isn’t quite sure where to wipe his hand. If Newt was feeling particularly sexy—which he isn’t, or really hasn’t, ever—he might, like, lick it off or something, but he just pats the sheets of his bed. “I have to wash them anyway, just go for it,” he says. Hermann looks grateful for the instruction; he also looks a little out of place, the only one on the bed still fully clothed. Layers of cotton and wool. The plaid slacks, aside from _ugly_ , are loose-fitting, and Newt can easily tell he’s hard.

He’s taking this as a challenge. “Lie back,” he tells Hermann, creeping his fingers under Hermann’s belt and tugging at the tails of his neatly-pressed Oxford button-down. Hermann shivers when Newt’s fingertips graze the beginning of his hip bone, and Newt delights at the warmth of his skin. He’s going to drag this out as much as possible.

“What did you want to—” Hermann begins, and his voice falters. He cups Newt’s cheek instead, searching.

Newt gives him a cocky half-smile, a lot more sure of himself than he really feels. “I’m totally gonna blow you, man.”

Hermann nods, wordlessly, moving his hand away from Newt’s face. He’s trembling, slightly. He moves to tug his sweater off over his head, but Newt stops him and does it for him; same with the button-down and cotton undershirt.

His world is narrowed in on Hermann: the rise and fall of his pale chest, his blush, his clenching and unclenching of the bedsheets as Newt presses him back, carefully, against the pillows, nudging his legs apart. He nearly forgets they have an audience, but Dr. Malcolm is there to the side, lounging only in his briefs, watching with rapt interest.

"I’m pretty great at this," Newt says with a grin, and he tugs down Hermann's slacks and shorts until— "Oh," he gasps, because the image of Hermann's cock he's built up in his mind (to jerk off to, frankly) is nothing compared to the real deal.

"Newton," Hermann says, blinking down at Newt between his legs, "are you—”

Newt quite enthusiastically takes as much as he can in on one go, and only gags a little bit, to his credit. Hermann makes a deep, low sound that reverberates throughout his body, and Newt's eyes flutter shut again. He stays as he is for a few seconds, enjoying the feel of Hermann in his mouth, before sliding back up and flicking his tongue around the head, lightly at first, and then sucking. He bobs back down, nearly gagging again, and Hermann makes a choked-off attempt at his name and his hips twitch.

"Don't—don't hold back," he hears Dr. Malcolm say lowly. "He likes it. See—" Dr. Malcolm's fingers go to Newt’s hair, gripping it tight, and he tugs Newt up and down on Hermann's cock in a few quick, rapid movements. Newt's glasses slip off and land on the bed.

"Don't—" Hermann snaps, the beginning of a reprimand, but stops at the desperate noise Dr. Malcolm's drawn out of Newt with the action. Newt feels Hermann place a cautious hand alongside Dr. Malcolm's, pressing Newt back down gingerly until his cock brushes the back of Newt's throat, and Newt makes a pleased sound. He does it again, harder, more insistently, and Newt moans.

"Thrust a bit too," Dr. Malcolm advises again, voice still low. "He—he's great at taking that."

"Newton," Hermann says warily, "you'll—you'll tell me if—it—?"

Newt answers by sucking harder, and Hermann's hips buck up just as hard.

They work a rhythm, Dr. Malcolm pressing his head down and Hermann thrusting up, until Hermann's self control wears thin and his movements turn erratic and he starts fucking Newt's throat. It's sloppy, messy, and Newt's got saliva and pre-come slicking his lips and chin. "Newton," Hermann gasps, and Newt watches him writhe (blurry as it is), and toss his head back, and oh my God, "Newton, oh—"

Dr. Malcolm snags Newt's wrists with his free hand, and starts urging Hermann on himself. "Little rougher. Bet you could—could make a real mess of him."

_Yes_ , Newt wants to say, but he only manages to make a high whine, and Hermann shuts his eyes and thrusts deep enough that Newt chokes again, swallowing hard around his cock, and everything goes white. He's vaguely aware of Hermann attempting some sort of warning before Dr. Malcolm is yanking Newt's head back and Hermann's coming half in Newt's mouth, half on Newt's face. Hermann falls back against the pillows when he's done, breathing erratically, and Newt stays where he is, blinking and messy and throat aching.

Dr. Malcolm lets go of his wrists and his hair, pats his head once, and slips Newt’s glasses back on for him and Newt, still dizzy, runs his fingers across his face. Hermann watches him. "You're—" he seems at a loss for words, and covers Newt's hand with his own instead. "Newton. Are you—?"

"Uh, holy shit, yes," Newt says, voice hoarse, and grins at Hermann's double-take when Newt wipes off his chin but leaves the mess across his cheeks alone.

"Ah, sweet," Dr. Malcolm says with a smile, glancing between the two of them. "You've never—not together—?"

"Never," Newt says, at the same time Hermann snaps "That's none of your business."

"Witnessing history, then," Dr. Malcolm says, still smiling.

* * *

They wait for Hermann to catch his breath. At least, Dr. Malcolm does. Newt's been antsy since he finished—well, since he finished blowing Hermann. (And wow, is that cool to just _think._ ) His chest is starting to feel a bit sticky, and he’s truthfully gotten a bit hard again, so it's a bad sign when Dr. Malcolm and Hermann start commiserating over him. Or really, it's a good sign.

"How do you want to do this?" Dr. Malcolm says, nodding at Newt, and Hermann cups Newt's cheek again, lazily.

"How would you like us, darling?" he says softly, almost like he can't stop himself from tacking on the endearment, and Newt leans into the touch.

He wants—Newt doesn't know how to say what he wants. To feel dirty? To feel used? Hermann’s earlier words echo back at him. "Can you—" he begins, and decides it's just easier to show it. He inches up until he's straddling Dr. Malcolm, grinding down, and even through the layer of his briefs it's—Newt presses his forehead against Dr. Malcolm's shoulder. "Hermann," he starts. "Hermann, in the top drawer of my bedside table—"

Hermann follows his instructions and pulls out a bottle of lube, immediately flushing a bright red once more. He tries to hand it to Newt, but Newt shakes his head. "No," he says, matching Hermann's redness. "I want you—to—"

Hermann looks pleased.

Newt lays on his back for it, with Hermann curled up at his side. Not quite spooning him, because of the angle, but close.

"Spread your legs a bit," he says, deceptively calm, because Newt can feel him trembling as he rests a slick hand on his ass. Newt does as he's told, willing himself to relax again, and Hermann slowly, cautiously—almost nervously—presses a finger into him.

"Oh, wow," Newt says, voice high, because it's all he can think of to say, and he shuts his eyes at the twinge of pain. Hermann doesn't move for a long, agonizing moment, watching Newt, and then he gently pulls out and presses in again.

"Is this fine?" he says softly into Newt's ear, and kisses the side of his neck. "You'll tell me if—"

"Do it again," Newt whines.

Hermann does. He builds up to two, then three, and then he's twisting his fingers experimentally and Newt is almost writhing. "Hermann," he gasps, "that's—"

"Doesn't he look lovely?" Hermann says to Dr. Malcolm, who's watching the show with rapid interest. He curls two of his fingers, and Newt almost arches off the bed, mouth falling open soundlessly.

"Like a dream," Dr. Malcolm agrees, corner of his mouth twitching up, and he reaches for the bottle of lube. "You mind if I—uh—join you?"

Hermann gestures in a sweeping, grandiose fashion, and soon Dr. Malcolm's easing another finger alongside Hermann's three, pressing in hard while Hermann curls his again, and Newt—feels dirty, he feels fantastic, and he can barely keep his eyes open but he can't bring himself to look away from the two men.

"Dr. Gottlieb," Dr. Malcolm says conversationally, with a little wink at Newt, "you're not that bad looking yourself. Not at all, actually, what am I saying."

Hermann smiles, slow and with that bit of mischief again, and he moves his free hand to the back of Dr. Malcolm's neck. Newt's breath hitches. "Mm. Neither are you," he hums in agreement, and he holds Newt's gaze as he kisses Dr. Malcolm right above him. Dr. Malcolm bites Hermann's lip and Hermann lets out an exaggerated groan at the same time one of their fingers—or maybe all, or maybe two, he can't even tell—hits the perfect spot, and Newt almost starts sobbing.

"Oh my god," he chokes out, and he _does_ arch up this time.

Hermann's murmuring low in his ear again. "Do you think you're ready?" he says, and he kisses the corner of Newt's mouth, and his lips are warm and kiss-abused, and then Dr. Malcolm is kissing the other corner, and Newt moans, loud and shameless and helpless.

"Yes," he says once they've pulled away, pulled their fingers out, and he's babbling, "I am, I am, holy shit, can you—"

"Think you've got it in you?" Dr. Malcolm says, and it takes Newt a second to catch on but he realizes Dr. Malcolm's sitting up against the headboard with his legs a little apart. "Put that show on. For your penpal.”

Newt's got it in him.

This time with Dr. Malcolm is different, likely because they have an audience; Newt's in his lap, again, sitting straight up, Dr. Malcolm leaning against the headboard, and it's—

"Yeah, _yeah_ ," Newt gasps, and Dr. Malcolm makes a low noise against his shoulder and fucks up into him harder. His hands are roaming across the planes of Newt's shoulders, down to his chest, brushing his nipples, and Newt scrabbles desperately at Dr. Malcolm's back, his nails leaving red marks. "Please," he says, begging shamelessly, "can you—uh—" _Compliment me_ sounds so pathetic, especially with Hermann sitting so, so close, but.

Dr. Malcolm manages an approximation of a laugh through his heavy breathing, but he catches on. "Excellent work," he mutters, low in Newt's ear, and Newt's mouth goes slack, "you're so good like, like this—" He grips Newt's ass, and fucks deep enough that Newt's eyes water and he feels like every nerve in his body is on fire—

"Fuck," he gasps again, "fuck, Dr. Malcolm, I—"

Dr. Malcolm stills and Newt sways forward, resting his head on the man's shoulder; he doesn't think he can stay upright much longer. Dr. Malcolm lets out another breathy laugh. "Doctor?" he says. "I think—I think we've moved, uh, _beyond_ that." He squeezes Newt's ass to make his point, nods to the side at Hermann, who's watching with barely-concealed shock and arousal.

"It's hot," Newt manages to slur out, eyes fluttering shut. When Dr. Malcolm still doesn't move, Newt grinds down impatiently and whimpers.

Dr. Malcolm shrugs, but gets the message. "Yeah, yeah, okay," he hums, spreads Newt's legs as wide as he can, and picks up speed.

The springs of Newt's discount mattress are creaking wildly and Newt's slumped forward, digging his nails into the skin of Dr. Malcolm's lower back, making a long string of high noises. " _Dr. Malcolm_."

Dr. Malcolm's hips stutter and his rhythm turns erratic. "Yeah, I can, get, get into th-that," he gasps, and presses messy kiss after messy kiss to whatever inch of Newt's skin he can reach.

He feels Hermann inch a little closer, watching intently, and Newt—he is putting on a show, after all—throws his head back and keens out a high _yes_ when Dr. Malcolm presses his face against Newt’s neck and comes in him with a groan. It's enough to send Newt over the edge again, and he comes too, whimpering and shuddering.

He rolls off a few minutes later, breathing hard and sensitive, and knows he must look a sight to Hermann. Probably twelve levels of debauched. "Hey," he says to Hermann, aiming for absurdly casual, but it comes out more desperate than intended, "want a go? Like you said?" He spreads his legs again to make his point, blushing as he does it because he just feels _dirty_ , because he has come— "You don't need, you know," he nods towards the bottle of lube, and Hermann blinks dizzily down at him.

"I—?"

Newt feels drunk. He runs a hand through his come on his stomach and then—well—jerks Hermann's cock lazily with it a few times, and Hermann makes a strange choking noise.

"Newton," he gasps, eyes wide, but _hungry_ , and Newt tries to wink.

Hermann's finely-wound self-restraint must finally snap because he's on Newt, kissing him and biting his lips sloppily, lifting up Newt's hips and _oh_.

The slide is easy, and it's so much, nearly too much, especially after Newt's already come only moments ago. Hermann swears under his breath when he goes in nearly to the hilt on his first go without resistance; his second go, and he has Newt seeing stars.

"Hermann," he moans, "dude, oh my god, you have no clue how much—"

Hermann kisses him again, gentle and soft this time, and it's a strangely tender gesture from someone who's fucking him through another man's jizz.

"Mark him up. Talk to him," Dr. Malcolm says mildly to Hermann, watching from the side again, and Newt feels another thrill at an audience. "He's big on that too." He pets Newt's hair again, the way Newt likes, and smiles in a way that's almost indulging. "Isn't he just, just perfect?"

Hermann flushes again. "I don't think that I—" He cuts himself off by biting into Newt's shoulder to avoid making a particularly loud noise when he gives a particularly deep thrust, and Newt nearly arches off the bed.

"Again," Newt begs, " _harder_."

Hermann obeys, digging his fingers into Newt's hips to angle him up higher, and swears again. "Newton," he groans, "you—"

"Uh-huh," Newt urges.

"You're— _magnificent_ , you—"

"Isn’t he just?" Dr. Malcolm purrs, hand on Newt's thigh, nudging his legs apart just a bit more. He kisses the shell of Hermann's ear, bites his earlobe, urges, "Faster, Dr. Gottlieb."

It's indescribable feeling Hermann lose control, feeling his hips snap, his breathing stutter, his—so his letters would suggest—extensive vocabulary limited, in this moment, simply to Newt's name. Hermann kisses him hard and sloppily when he comes, pulling out fast enough to mark Newt's chest with it too, and Newt manages a soft moan.

Hermann’s arms are shaking where they’re braced on either side of Newt, and he carefully eases himself to the empty spot at Newt’s side; Newt, meanwhile, isn’t sure if he’s ever going to move from this spot again. He’d be fine with that, really. He’s _good_ here, and sated, and comfortable. “Newton,” Hermann says, nervous and shy again, and he won’t meet Newt’s eyes. “Was I—that is, are you—?” He glances at the mess he’s made of Newt and flushes deeply; his rapid change in demeanor is almost comically endearing.

"That was so great. Holy shit," Newt slurs, and Hermann manages a tiny, breathy laugh. Newt feels—hot. Sore. Used, in a dirty, sexy way. And exhausted, frankly.

He only means to close his eyes for a few seconds but when he wakes up, it's dark outside and in his bedroom. He's been cleaned off at some point—his chest and his face, at any rate—and there's a sheet pulled carefully up to his chin. He's vaguely aware of two sets of arms wrapped around him, and it takes only a few moments to determine Dr. Malcolm is pressed up against Newt's back and Newt is pressed to Hermann's front. They're speaking in low, hushed voices, and Newt feigns sleep so he can overhear.

"I didn't mean to—to intrude on anything," Dr. Malcolm says. "On your relationship."

Hermann sounds amused. "You didn't," he says. "I mean—we didn't have one. Before. I wanted it. Want it. I like to think it’s the same for him."

"It is," Dr. Malcolm says, a little ruefully.

Hermann doesn't speak for a beat. "I'm sorry," he says, "I didn't realize—"

"Geiszler’s just—he's something, isn't he? Don't, uh, don't know what it is." He laughs. "And don't apologize. I'd be a, a what's the phrase? Cradle-snatcher."

There's a kiss to the back of Newt's head, and Hermann mirrors it a moment later to Newt's forehead, and Newt dozes off again, warm and happy.

**Author's Note:**

> also: the magnificent feriowind drew some [equally magnificent art](https://twitter.com/kaijuferio/status/998487455404777472) of this the other night that i am still, quite honestly, losing my mind about
> 
> hope you all enjoyed my garbage. as always, find me on tumblr at hermannsthumb and twitter at hermanngaylieb


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